The Last Survivors (Book 4): The Last Command

by Bobby Adair

  The importance and urgency of Oliver's task took on the added weight of nineteen thousand lives—or however many were left, after two nights of fighting.

  Oliver needed to kill Winthrop tonight.

  Chapter 55: Tenbrook

  "How did Father Franklin do at his mass?" Tenbrook asked, watching Captain Sinko intently.

  "Surprisingly well," Sinko said, averting his eyes.

  Tenbrook bit his lip, prepared for different news. "What do you mean by that?"

  "He gave an inspiring sermon, sir. The entire congregation watched him without a whisper."

  "They were judging him, I suspect."

  "Yes. At first."

  "But then?"

  "But then he won them over. A few women were weeping in the pews. In fact, the clergymen seemed awe-struck. By the end, the entire congregation was talking about him in front of the Sanctuary. Many of the farmers stayed outside instead of heading back to the fields, discussing his passages. His style is very different than Winthrop's, indeed, but he seems to have a real way with The People. And he can read."

  "I'm surprised," Tenbrook said, clenching his fist around the pen in his hand. Tenbrook liked to think he was a good judge of character—especially when it came to detecting threats. Perhaps Franklin's humble demeanor had all been an act.

  Perhaps he was in on the plan.

  Tenbrook would watch Evan and see if he met with Franklin.

  "Is there anything else, sir?" Sinko asked.

  "Keep after Scholar Evan. Make sure to report back to me on wherever he goes. And let me know if you catch wind of any of his conversations."

  "Will do, sir."

  Chapter 56: Evan

  Evan nervously paced his room in the Academy. He hadn't touched his books in days. His room was disheveled, his bed unmade. He'd been falling asleep at odd hours, napping when he could. He'd dismissed the servants that knocked on his door to clean up after him.

  He couldn't think about anything but his meeting with the Dunlows.

  That meeting gave him a mixture of trepidation and relief. Tommy and Timmy seemed nervous but forthright. He couldn't imagine they'd mingle with the other deserters if they were guilty. But that question begged another.

  If it wasn't the Dunlows, who was it?

  He'd been chewing on that thought ever since his meeting. He already knew it was no one else at the Clergy or the Academy. At least, no one he had recruited.

  In all likelihood, the man who had given them up had most likely fled town or was holed up under Tenbrook's protection. Evan wished he could ask Tenbrook outright. But even if he did, he doubted Tenbrook would tell him.

  There was a good chance the man was dead.

  Everyone was accounted for, according to Timmy and Tommy. The only other person who knew was Beck, who was on the road with Blackthorn's army. And Oliver.

  Oliver.

  The name hit Evan like a punch to the stomach. His eyes grew wide with fright. He'd thought of Oliver in passing, but he hadn't seen him in a while. The last time Evan had spoken with the boy was a few days ago, and it seemed like he'd been done with the plan. He'd even mentioned going over the circle wall. Oliver had promised he wouldn't speak of what had transpired between him and Evan, but he was also angry; he'd been beaten.

  Maybe the secret of their collusion hadn't died there.

  Oliver didn't know the details of the plan. But he knew enough to implicate Evan. What if he'd found a way to decipher Evan's letters to the Dunlows? What if, instead of going over the circle wall, he'd gone to Tenbrook out of anger for the way he'd been treated?

  What if Oliver is Tenbrook's informant?

  Evan felt a surge of panic that made him sick. He hurried from his room, bumping into one of the other Scholars on the way out.

  "Sorry, Scholar Evan," the man mumbled.

  "It is no matter."

  He could barely think. He needed to find out what had happened to Oliver. That was the only way to alleviate his doubts.

  Chapter 57: Beck

  Everything about the journey left Beck at a loss for words. Despite the stories he'd heard as a boy, the stories all children of Brighton were told, despite the pictures he'd seen in those exquisite books Ivory had donated to the Academy, nothing could have prepared him for the natural landscape.

  The canyon that the army had been in for a day, a night, and the morning opened up to a view of a plain that ran along the base of the mountains and spread all the way to the ocean. The grass-covered fields were dotted in copses and striped with fingers of forest that stretched and wound until they faded at the horizon. Everything in the grandeur he saw was beyond his experience.

  In the grasslands below the mountains, Beck found himself fascinated by the patterns. Long lines, grids, squares, and rectangles dotted the grass, as though the dirt had been piled into designs and the grass grew over them. Some of the lines curved in wide ribbons that stretched for miles. In many places, the grass was too thick or the patterns in the dirt worn away with time. In other places, the forest obscured the patterns beneath.

  As Beck rode with the army down the road to the lower reaches of the mountain, the patterns in the grass grew hard to see and were lost. But Beck saw the remains of walls in the grass, some barely visible, others as tall as a child, a few taller than a man, straight and sturdy. Some ruins marked the remains of buildings so large it was impossible to imagine what purpose they could have served.

  Beck saw movement, as well. At first, he thought the tiny specks were large herbivores grazing on the plain or galloping through the grass. But the closer the army got to the grasslands, the more those beasts solidified into what they were: twisted men, hundreds and hundreds of them from across the plain, all converging on the point below where the road led away from the mountain and disappeared into the patterns beneath the grass.

  The army was going to have to fight their way through to keep marching toward their destination.

  Chapter 58: Oliver

  After rounding the final hairpin turn on the ancient road, Oliver saw the column of the army snake off, not toward the Ancient City, but in a roughly northeasterly path toward a bean-shaped hill beside the river. Having spent the previous night in a tent on Blackthorn's hill in the pass, and feeling a little bit safer because of it, Oliver guessed the bean-shaped knoll was going to be the army's campsite for the night.

  The road spilled the army into a sprawling grassy field at the foot of the mountain, where the bodies of hundreds of demons lay waiting for the black birds to come and scavenge their flesh. The bodies of dozens of Blackthorn's most precious foot soldiers, his blue shirts, lay dead among them.

  The skirmish was already over. It hadn't even slowed the march. The number of demons was tiny compared to the many thousand under arms in Blackthorn's army.

  By the time Oliver passed the bodies. Winthrop and his zealots in the column just behind Oliver resumed their chanting. Men and women knelt by bodies and dipped their hands in blood, touching one another and leaving red prints, dragging their fingers across their cheeks and foreheads, striping their faces in blood.

  Oliver left his place in line and trotted through grass stomped flat by those who'd already gone by. He dropped to his knees by a demon body that looked to have some blood in it, and sliced his dagger across the demon's thigh. Red flesh split apart. Oliver stuffed his hands into the wound and pulled out some innards, pressing them to his chest. He dragged his fingers down his cheeks. He marked his shoulders with red blood, hoping he wore enough blood to mark him as one of Winthrop's faithful.

  Chapter 59: Franklin

  Franklin blinked as he surveyed the piles of books and notes around him. Ever since his successful sermon, he'd felt his confidence growing. The words of Lady and Bruce seemed to come alive, providing new meanings that he'd never been allowed to consider. With Father Winthrop gone, he was able to see The Word as what it was meant to be: a doctrine meant to inspire rather than bring fear.

  He smiled as he fo
und a relevant passage in one of his reference books, underscoring the need to provide assistance to neighbors in times of famine and hardship. He reached for a piece of paper, bent on jotting down some notes.

  A knock on the door distracted him. He leaned back in his chair, setting down his pen.

  "Who is it?" he called.

  Joseph peered into the room. "You have a visitor, Father."

  "Who?"

  "Scholar Evan."

  "Is he behind you?"

  "No, he's in the Sanctuary. Should I fetch him and send him in? I didn't want to bring him into your quarters."

  "I could use a break. I'll meet him there. Tell him I won't be long."

  Franklin listened as Joseph's footsteps retreated in the hallway. He stood, shaking the stiffness from his legs, and tried to clear the sermon he'd been working on from his head. He walked from his room and down a long corridor, navigating his way to the main Sanctuary room. What could Evan want? He realized that he hadn't seen the Scholar since their induction at the square. He assumed that like him, Evan had been busy performing the duties of his new role. It'd be good to catch up with his friend.

  Opening the door, he found Scholar Evan standing in between the front row of benches.

  "I'm sorry to disturb you so soon after the sermon, Franklin," Evan said, rubbing his hands together.

  "That's quite all right," Franklin said. "How are things going?"

  "I just wanted to congratulate you on your successful mass the other day." Evan's eyes roamed from the pulpit to Franklin. "I wish I could've attended."

  "It is no matter. I know you have your people at the Academy to look after."

  "I heard a group of merchants talking outside in the market. They couldn't believe the succinct delivery of your words. Several of the farmers said it was the best sermon they'd heard in years. Better than Winthrop's. Of course, they said the last part thinking no one else would hear."

  Franklin blushed, unable to help himself. "Thanks."

  "I have no doubt that they're right," Evan said.

  "How are things at the Academy?"

  "I'm doing my best." Evan smiled. "The duties are overwhelming, but I'm hoping to make Minister Beck proud."

  Both Franklin and Evan had climbed from the roles of subordination to leadership in a matter of days. Franklin imagined it was as much a shock to Evan as it was to him.

  Evan shifted from foot to foot, as if he had something more to say. Franklin knew him well enough to know there was another reason for the visit.

  "Is there something else I can do for you?" Franklin asked.

  "I know you're probably busy," Evan said. "I don't want to take up too much of your time."

  "It's no matter," Franklin said.

  "I was just looking for Oliver."

  "Oliver?" Franklin's smile morphed to nervousness. He hadn't been asked about Oliver in days, since shortly after he left. He wasn't looking forward to telling the lie about Winthrop requesting him.

  "Yes. Have you seen him?"

  "He left a few days ago," Franklin said.

  "Left?" Evan's face went white. "Did he tell you that?"

  "Yes. He went with Blackthorn's army." Franklin paused, then added, "He went to assist Father Winthrop."

  Composing himself, Evan said, "I didn't know about that."

  "Depending on what you need, I might be able to lend you another novice. Is your back hurting you again? Do you need help at the market?"

  "No, it's a matter of little importance."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I'm sure. I just wanted to answer a question he had about the Academy. He asked me when we went to the market last week. I said I'd look up the answer and get back to him."

  "Oh, I see."

  "Congratulations again on your successful sermon. I know what a challenge that must've been. I'll be there for the next one."

  "Thanks for the—" Franklin started.

  Without another word, Evan scurried through the doorway, his footsteps echoing off the cavernous ceiling.

  Chapter 60: Beck

  Minister Beck and General Blackthorn sat on their horses on the crest of the hill. From there Beck saw most of the top of the large hill and a good share of the gently sloping sides, not the back side facing the river with its near vertical cliffs, but the ones that were approachable from the savanna in front of them. All over the hill, men were busy.

  "Pardon me for saying so," said Beck, "but you don't look well."

  Blackthorn said nothing.

  "Perhaps it would be better to leave the construction of the defenses to your captains. Rest would do you good. An army needs a healthy general."

  "Rest is for weak men," Blackthorn spat. Blackthorn turned and looked at Beck. "Scholars." He shook his head and looked back at the goings on below. "Merchants, clergy, farmers, harlots, and orphans. Children have their stories about glory on a horse, but nobody knows the reality. Cavalrymen know suffering like no fat resident of Brighton ever will. They sit by their fires when the cold rains come while we cavalrymen ride. Farmers stay inside when the snows are deep while we go out and do battle. When a Scholar nicks his finger with a quill, what does he do, Minister? Does he rest in his bed until he is well? A cavalryman does not. When his bones are broken, and his blood is flowing over his horse, a cavalryman raises his blade. Beyond the circle wall, there is no rest, no mercy. Out here, you kill the demons, or you die. So go rest if you want." Blackthorn pointed to the tents. "Your quarters are ready."

  Beck wanted to shoot back with something snide, but another part of him found admiration in the general's little diatribe. The cavalry did sacrifice a great deal, and the people in Brighton lived in the comfort of their duty. "General?" Beck had a hard time making the words come.

  "Speak, man," ordered Blackthorn.

  "I apologize."

  Blackthorn laughed. "Another game of words? What do you try to bait me with now? Do you ever tire?"

  "No," said Beck. "I mean it. I apologize. You're wounded. You can't raise your arm. I've been riding in your company all day. More than once I thought you'd fall from your horse, but you surprised me. You sat tall. I appreciate the sacrifice you and the cavalry make, even what the blue shirts do for the safety of us all. I am sincere."

  "But?"

  "Why should there be a but?" Beck asked.

  "We've shared the council too long. I know you, Beck."

  "I'd planned to say no more, General. I appreciate what you do. I would not be able to do it. If I were to say anything, I would say that I hope one day you will appreciate what the Scholars do, as different as it is from what you and your men do. But I was not going to add that. I am learning as this venture continues that the two are not the same. Allow me that. Accept my appreciation at face value."

  Blackthorn turned and gave Beck a hard stare. "I will."

  "You're a more complex man that I'd thought." Beck let his gaze wander over the activity on the slopes of the hill. "I see men are digging trenches and piling the dirt only on one side."

  "Defenses," said Blackthorn. "The men can stand atop the mound of dirt. Charging demons will fall into the trenches and will have to climb the side defended by the militia. Men chopping down at demons whose heads are at the soldiers' knees are not likely to be injured. They can't be overrun no matter how many demons come at them. The trenches and the earthen ramparts stop them."

  "Why here?" asked Beck.

  "The slope of the hill adds to the advantage of the defenders."

  "I see," said Beck, "but what I was asking is, why are we building defenses here, and why have we not done so at our other campsites?"

  "The twisted men in the plain between the mountains and the sea are more numerous than any other place I know of, besides the Ancient City."

  "Is this where the demon horde you spoke of is?" Beck asked. "The one we came here to annihilate?"

  "It is in the city," said Blackthorn, "but we cannot engage it until we deal with the demons on the plain."


  "Are we staying here, then," asked Beck, "on this hill?"

  "For a time," answered Blackthorn. "The demons will come to us. They might all come. We'll fare better in battle if we give our militia the advantage of defenses."

  "It'll be like our circle wall, only here, instead of around Brighton."

  "Not as formidable," said Blackthorn, "but yes."

  "With the earthen ramparts," asked Beck, "will we have a chance to live through this?"

  "More than without."

  "Will we live through this, General? Honestly?"

  Blackthorn turned to look at Beck again. "Perhaps out here, where life is simple, we can live without the lies that life in Brighton seems to require of us."

  "I would like that," said Beck.

  "Men don't like the truth when it is hard," said Blackthorn. "They'll do anything to pretend the truth is false. They'll lie to themselves. They'll believe the lies of others. That is the nature of men."

  "And the truth about our chances of living through this?"

  "You're a smart man, Beck. You've known the truth all along. You chose to hide from it because it was too brutal to accept. We are here to die so that Brighton will have enough food to live through the winter. We will kill as many demons as we can so that future hordes coming through the canyon to seek out Brighton's innocent souls will be smaller. With our lives, we are laying the foundation for a future where humankind has a chance."

  Chapter 61: Tommy Dunlow

  Tommy and Timmy walked with their backs straight as they approached the door to Blackthorn's house, trying to project what little confidence their trembling hands would allow. The guard at the front door watched them. Tommy searched for any sign of recognition in the guard's face, but he seemed bored, rather than interested, at their arrival.

  Tommy hoped that was a good sign.

  "Who are you here to see?" the guard asked.

  Tommy and Timmy traded a nervous glance before one of them spoke.